Into the blessed dark of the Arena’s innards once more. Twain sagged into his room, mostly supported by Fell. Blood soaked his shirt and pants, and pasted them to his skin. He flopped into Spar’s bunk, boneless.

“Don’t get your blood on my bunk, gross.”

Twain flipped Spar off. Spar grinned.

“Someone call a healer. I’m gonna die,” Twain grunted, rolling onto his back.

Fell stepped forward. Twain gave him a look. “What?”

“I… I can heal,” Fell offered.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a lightning elemental.”

He rubbed his palms together and held them up. A warm, greenish light emanated from his palms. “And… and healing.”

“A dual elemental?” Twain asked. The Mage-Emperor is one thing, but isn’t that multiple-elements thing rare?

“He’s a human. It’s not even uncommon,” Spar shrugged. After a moment, he added, “Among humans who can cast, anyways. As I understand it, in return for the ability to master multiple elements, a smaller proportion of humans can cast magic compared to any other race.”

Fell bent over Twain. Warmth suffused him, a soft, comforting feeling that wiped away all his pain. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning into it. “Not bad, not bad.”

“Healing and lightning is a weird combination, though. Usually the elements complement each other. Smoke and glamour. Wind and water,” Spar commented.

“I’m not complaining.” Twain craned his neck and watched the cuts seal shut, red covered over with gray. He peeled back his shirt to glance at the cuts underneath.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Fell flinched. He pressed Twain’s head back to the bed, covering his eyes with his hand. “Shhh, don’t move.”

Not wanting to risk his free heals, Twain laid back and closed his eyes again. Warm light washed away the pain bit by bit. He shifted under Fell's hands, guiding the healing toward the worst cuts.

Spar yawned, bored. “Let’s go out.”

Without missing a beat, Twain replied, “Thanks, Spar, you’re a great friend, but I just don’t feel that way about you.”

Spar rolled his eyes. “Go out on the damn town, you idiot. Hit up some bars. I could use a good whiskey.”

“Can you drink whiskey?” Twain asked, peeking an eye open. He’s mostly eaten grasses and flowers, that I’ve seen. Some oats, but all horse food. Can horses drink alcohol?

“I can put it in my mouth and swallow, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Twain pulled a face. “Did you need to say it like that?”

Spar smirked. “See? I need to hit the town. Get a little… tension out.”

With a sigh, Twain shook his head. What could it hurt? I don’t mind a tavern or two, a bard, maybe. Cooped up in that castle all this time sipping fine wine is nice and all, but I could use a little low-brow entertainment. “Alright, fine.”

“Fell, you in?” Spar asked.

The man jolted. He retracted his hands. The glow faded from his palms. “Er, I uh…” He glanced at Twain. “Yes.”

“It’s decided, then.” Twain sat up. He looked at his shirt. A total loss. Torn open, soaked in blood, it barely qualified as a shirt. He shrugged out of it.

Fell whipped around and faced the wall.

“What’s that for? We’re all men here,” Spar commented.

“Oh, leave it, maybe he’s shy,” Twain replied. He pulled a fresh shirt over his head. Letting the ends dangle, he yanked off his pants and swapped them as well.

When he was fully dressed, he tapped Fell’s back. “I’m decent.”

Slowly, Fell peeked over his shoulder. At the sight of Twain in clothes once more, he visibly relaxed, shoulders unknitting. “Where are we going?”

“Out! We’ll figure out the rest once we get there,” Spar announced. A bounce in his step, he led the way out of their room. Confident, Spar navigated the way through the Arena's underbelly, retracing the steps Twain had taken earlier to escape out the rear exit.

A quiet sound caught Twain’s ear at the final door. Sunset ahead of him, he half-turned, then smiled. “I forgot my jacket, I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry up, we won’t wait forever!” Spar grumbled.

Fell stared, then nodded and followed Spar out.

The door shut. Behind him, the lanterns winked out one at a time. The hallway dimmed to twilight, then pitch black. Light glowed through the gap in the door, then went dark. Twain stood alone, the only point of color in the abyss.

He turned, slowly. “Who are you?”